The Banker from Denver
by xXKanpekiXx
Summary: Kyle searches the online nightlife for some easy companionship while he has some serious introspection. Oneshot.


Yikes! **I've been in such a slump lately! **I've tried desperately to cast off the shackles of this tepid writer's block, but it's not working! I tried this on a whim. Maybe my lackluster writing has stemmed from my forced focus on long term projects. Perhaps a oneshot will soothe my slump.

**Summary **(Though I'm sure it's not necessary)**: **Kyle, staying up late to search the internet nightlife for companionship, re-evaluates his actions.

I hope you enjoy this story. I don't think it's my best, but it's better than the shit I've been producing for the last month.

* * *

The house was a cemetery, the residents limp and quiet in their respective beds as they usually were at such an ungodly hour. Kyle stuck his head out of the door, eyes fully adjusted to the din, patrolling to ensure his in-home solitude. The pitch saturating his house reassured him, relaxing him to the point where he felt comfortable retreating into the nest.

The boy climbed back into his bed and reached for his laptop, already blinding in contrast with the dark, and began moving his fingers across the worn keyboard with a hint of trepidation. He bit his lip as he waited, eyes scanning restlessly above the monitor, as if expecting a figure to loom in the night, disapproving and damning. Seeing no one, Kyle returned focus to his chat, which was quickly filling with sharp black text.

The man he was conversing with spoke in metaphors which Kyle could not readily understand, though they were almost certainly sexual. And if this chat was not blatantly perverse, it was heading in that direction. Kyle did not know this man, but he liked to pretend he did. As his online companion responded with a quip presumably about his genitals, Kyle began to detail a back story for this john.

Tyler Brenton, the 28 year-old-man from Denver, Colorado, worked in a bank at his stuffy 9 to 5, bringing home the bacon to an empty apartment and an equally empty fridge.

He would toss down his briefcase with the retained childishness of a nine-year-old casting down his Transformers backpack and retiring to the awkwardly patterned couch. Some motley mixture of stripes and dots, Kyle liked to imagine. He would kick off his mildly scuffed brown loafers and clunk his feet heavily on the cheap wooden table before turning the TV on.

After a couple hours of unproductive channel surfing and a fast food meal, Tyler Brenton, the banker from Denver, would climb aimlessly into his cold bed, missing the warmth of another individual from under the plaid comforter.

At that moment, Kyle wish that instead of under his rumpled Terrance and Phillip sheets, he could be writhing and moaning under the thick embrace of that plaid comforter. The dull, faded green would contrast his vibrant red locks and make his eyes pop.

It would look good on him.

As Tyler sent another penis-related metaphor, Kyle turned to his right, tilting his head just enough to make out the framed picture resting on his tidy nightstand.

It was a photo of him and Stan, smiling brightly as they stood near the local Shaky's Pizza. They were adorned in their filthy baseball uniforms and the sweat crusted thinly on the edges of their faces, but they were happy, with their arms slung haphazardly over each other's shoulders. A rise of something, a hot sickness, made its way through Kyle's stomach as he saw the image. Stan's beaming face made him wonder why he was even doing this.

What was he doing this for, Stan would ask.

Was he lonely, Stan would ask.

Why couldn't he talk to him, Stan would ask.

All questions Kyle didn't have the answer to. It was enough to make him cry. There he was, twelve years old, staying up late to cyber with an older man he didn't know that would rape him without a second thought.

What was it he wanted?

Attention? He got plenty of that.

Companionship? Stan was relentlessly supportive.

Release? Maybe, but masturbation had never factored into his chats.

Kyle concluded that he did it for the fun of it, never really becoming invested in the sex talk. He could be anyone he wanted.

Hell, he could be Tyler Brenton!

He could be that 28 year-old banker from Denver, Colorado, tucked neatly under his comfy plaid blankets.

But under a closer examination, Kyle didn't want to be.

He looked at himself, finding the image of his curly red mop hunched over a computer talking to some pervert wildly disgusting. Exiting the chat without warning, Kyle shut his computer down and rolled over, feeling desperately for a pillow. He hugged it to his body, letting the tears fall.

There was no Tyler Brenton.

There was no moderately successful banker who lived alone in his apartment.

There was no lazy, fast food junkie who slept in a bed fit for a lumberjack.

There was only Kyle Broflovski, the sad little twelve year old weeping under his childish sheets for something he wasn't sure he wanted.

* * *

Opinions? Am I out of the slump?


End file.
